


bite me, flint

by syari



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Getting Together, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Quidditch, Tumblr Prompt, i can't tag, quidditch pitch shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:38:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syari/pseuds/syari
Summary: He's never backed down from a fight, and he's not going to start now. It's just that this isn't a fight, not really. It's still something dangerous.Something just for them.





	bite me, flint

**Author's Note:**

> from a [tumblr](www.podmore.tumblr.com) prompt: marcus flint/oliver wood, "quidditch pitch shenanigans on the ground or any other place shenanigans"
> 
> this was my first time writing for this pairing, but i liked it so you might see them again! enjoy :)

He looks back.

He doesn't quite know why, only— he does. It's inevitable, like the crashing of the waves on the shore, or maybe that's just the blood rushing in his ears, or the sound of the crowd roaring his victory.

But he looks back. Out of the sea of scarlet and gold jubilation, he sees a sliver of emerald, a slice of silver-edged disgust, and anger, and bitter disappointment. Flint's face has been called ugly by everyone in Hogwarts, even by Oliver, but looking at it now no one can doubt it's a masterpiece of stunning, rippling emotion.

Flint sees him looking, and his scowl deepens, becomes something feral. Something dark and wild and just for him. 

Oliver turns back to his team and allows himself to be swept along in joyous relief, his hands clutching a golden cup that suddenly weighs more than a lump of precious metal has any right to, and he doesn't know if the ball of light in his chest comes from winning or from something far more dangerous.

Something just for him.

\--

They play harder each time. Oliver pushes his team to new heights (literally and metaphorically), creates new plays, has brainstorming sessions with Angelina and Alicia tucked in the corner of the common room when it rains. It's still not enough. They have to be the best.

"Oliver," Alicia begins delicately, "Are you sure we need more practices? Half the team's falling asleep in class as it is."

Angelina is less circumspect. "Back off, Wood. I care as much about this game as you do, but I'm sleeping in tomorrow and I'm going to love it."

She doesn't care as much as he does though. She loves the game, but it isn't her world the same way it is for him. He needs it to breathe. He needs it so he won't think.

But they're right, just a little, so he lets his team sleep in on Saturday morning as he jogs circles around the pitch, relishing the burn of his muscles and the cut of the air. He doesn't see Flint until he's slamming full force into him, knocking Oliver sprawling onto his back with a groan.

"The fuck, Wood?" Flint's snarl is nasty, edged with true surprise. It isn't often that Oliver can take him by surprise these days.

The same does not apply both ways. Oliver is surprised constantly by Flint, and today is no exception, judging by the hand extended grudgingly down towards him almost as if unconscious of the force of Flint's hatred, burning hot.

Oliver takes his hand and is pulled sharply upright, too close. He breathes out shakily and goes to step back, he does, only Flint is there in his face, teeth bared, daring him to back down.

He's never backed down from a fight, and he's not going to start now. It's just that this isn't a fight, not really. It's still something dangerous. 

Something just for them.

Flint's smile turns sharp and bright and ugly, still, but striking. Oliver can't look away, not even when Flint's hand curls threateningly in his shirt, not even when he leans in, eyes dark with malice and intent. Not even when he—

"See you around, Wood." Flint huffs half a laugh in his face and pushes him back away, extricating his hand from Oliver's wrinkled shirt. Oliver watches him go, the last of his breath gone with the burning of his lungs and the sharp tang of anticipation tingling under his tongue.

\--

Those same hands fist in his jacket, his hair, pushing and pulling desperately as they kiss, something wild and dark between them. Flint pushes him back against the Ravenclaw stands, and Oliver feels his ribs ache with the impact over the bruises from the match. They're alone on the dark pitch, and if they get caught there'll be hell to pay, but for now there's just this. Another way to fight.

He nips at Flint's lower lip, eliciting a growl, and wonders dizzily who's winning this time. Marcus presses in again, tugging Oliver into him by his hips, and he stops thinking entirely.

\--

They're in the air this time, Oliver defending, Flint attacking, over and over again until the lines of metaphor blur.

"I don't understand."

Flint growls, "Of course you don't. Idiot."

Oliver tries again, batting the Quaffle away over the left hoop. "You love Quidditch. Why won't you stay with it?"

The snarl is back, ugly and bright. Oliver almost misses the next shot.

"You know why." Flint shakes his head and flies off. Oliver watches him land and dismount in a single smooth motion, and wants to scream.

He follows, landing with a stumble, turning it into a half-jog to catch up. "Wait— Marcus—"

Flint is suddenly in his face, slamming him to a halt. "You don't own me, Wood. I'm not one of your little team, jumping off cliffs for you." He makes a mocking gesture of running with his fingers, and Oliver just—

"Fuck your family." He thinks it might be the first time he's really shocked Flint, but it's not the first time he's seen fury gather like stormclouds on that heavy brow.

"Fuck you, Wood," he snaps, and Oliver doesn't know when they got so close, but Flint shoves him back and then pulls him back in anyways. The kiss is hot and sharp and angry, and he almost gives in entirely, but he won't forget. He won't let this be the end of it.

\--

They're lying on the grass on the hill behind the pitch. Classes are out after exams, but no one's around to see this, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, watching the clouds go higher than they could ever reach.

Oliver thinks if he studied Marcus' face for the rest of his life, he'd never get tired of the mercurial shifts of emotion, of the pure expression flooding across it. Right now, he thinks it just looks purely annoyed, confirmed by the sharp flick to his nose. "Staring."

He shouldn't smile. "Bite me, Flint."

They're both competitive by nature. Maybe he should have predicted this, but he's powerless to stop Marcus deliberately pressing his teeth into the crook of Oliver's neck, biting down just enough to thrill, scraping along his nerves.

"You talk a big game, Wood. All talk."

Oliver relishes the feeling of running his fingers over Marcus' scalp, ruffling the short hair. "I'll show you a big game. Rematch?"

Marcus groans. "That fucking mouth." Still, he takes the proffered hand, and Oliver helps him to his feet, pulling him just a little too close into his orbit. "You're on."

They race to see who can reach the broomshed first, and Oliver feels as though he's already taken flight, even as something is rooted in his chest. 

It's dangerous, and wild, and dark, and it's theirs.


End file.
